


Creation

by AltraViolet



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Present Tense, Romance, blood mention, greek myth retelling, kiss, technically self harm???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29437548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltraViolet/pseuds/AltraViolet
Summary: A retelling of the Greek mythPygmalionfor the Dreamwidth J/P 2021 Valentine's Literary Fest.Prowl can't find a suitable companion, so he builds one.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: ProwlxJazz Valentines Fest 2021





	Creation

A steady line of mechs streams by. Prowl dismisses each with a glance. _Too tall. Too many wheels. Not lively enough._ The dating meetups have all been disappointing. Though several mechs ping him with interest, Prowl turns them down. He knows it deep in his spark- has known it his whole life. There is no one here for _him._

When he complains about it at work, someone says, “Prowl, you're too picky. At this rate you'll have to _build_ yourself a companion.”

After mulling that over for 3.6 seconds, Prowl agrees.

Prowl gathers things. Things he finds, things he steals. Abandoned things. Things that were once alive but now are not. Things that never lived. Leg plating and arms and wheels and struts and the most beautiful visor, perfect save for one small chip in the corner. He shapes the pieces into his favorite frame, that speedy one buzzing around town. He gives his creation the doorwings of a stranger he saw once. They were so graceful, he was struck speechless. He gives it the wheel wells of a mech who wrote an award-winning stage play while incarcerated. The audials of a busking musician whom he had arrested, who had played for the whole precinct and charmed his way out of a night in jail. He gives it the smile of the most beautiful actress in Iacon. He gives his creation the best attributes of a thousand mechs. He even gives it a spark chamber, inlaid with swirls of semi-precious metals. Paint and polish and a bit of Prowl's own blood on the roof of its mouth to please Primus and there it stands. 

Prowl doesn't know what to name it. It's made of so many disparate parts. What name could hold all these parts together? It hardly matches itself, save for the paint, and Prowl knows in the eyes of any other, it is an abomination.

But it is beautiful to Prowl. And it listens.

It listens to his musings and random thoughts, his puzzling out of work challenges. It listens to his hopes and dreams- despite what others think, he does have a _few._ It listens and it is silent.

After a while, Prowl wishes it wasn't. He wishes it could talk back. A quick-witted personality. Perhaps just a touch of snark. A bright spark and a thirst for life.

Prowl writes a program. It's stored in his desk, he doesn't dare do this in his own processor. He starts small. _Hello. Hi. How are you? One, two, three, four, five. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, ultraviolet. Today is a holiday. Tomorrow is not a holiday. I must work all the time. I like being at home. I like being with you._

The program learns... slowly. He talks to it and it talks back, a hollow ringing of what he wants to hear. But most of the time, it listens.

Prowl finds he can't wait to get home from work to talk to his creation. He starts taking note of things that happen during the day- funny things, silly things. Things his creation would like to hear about. When he gets home he heats a single-serving packet of pre-packaged energon and sits next to it and tells it about his day. All the while, he's writing the program.

He touches its arm and he writes _oh, hey, handsome_ as the reaction. He brings it crystal flowers and energon treats. He leaves the entertainment center on for it when he leaves for work. He writes it poems. Stilted and analytical at first, but slowly becoming more raw and abstract. Prowl invests in better tools: laser scalpels and high-end epoxies. He repairs the visor. He slowly upgrades the disparate pieces of its frame. Prowl meditates on its dreams and wishes- for it surely has them- far more adventurous ones than he does. Prowl plays it music, all kinds of music. He knows that it loves music. Prowl spends every spare shanix on rare and beautiful melodies imported from Luna 1.

And on it goes, though he takes care not to talk about the worst stuff of the world. It's _his_ creation. It deserves to go unmarred by the fears and sins and mistakes of his fellow cybertronians. It deserves to be happy and safe and joyful, basking in the light of all the positivity Prowl can give it. It deserves to see the good things, hear the good things, and never feel pain.

Until one day Prowl has a terrible shift at work. He comes home and pours it all out- all of it. His fears, his sins, his mistakes. And the thing doesn't judge him. It just listens. It just- it just- it can't reach out to him, so Prowl takes it into his arms. Tears stain its paint but he doesn't care, and it doesn't care, and for the first time Prowl kisses it. Its lips are rigid, unliving metal beneath his, of course, and his spark stings as he realizes that he _loves_ it-

-and it can't love him back.

Prowl goes to the biggest temple in the city. He doesn't believe in this sect. He does believe in Primus. Maybe Primus will hear him if he prays in the biggest building. So he does. He bows his head and his doorwings and lets his field seep out in every direction. He tells Primus what he has done. He pours out his love. He begs and he prays. He leaves a tidy sum for the priestesses.

When he gets home, the thing sits on the couch exactly where he left it. The program chirps a greeting. Prowl lifts it from the couch and takes it to his bed. He entwines his limbs with it and tells it what they will do someday together. They will go to the Sea of Rust and stay at the heart-shaped hotel. They will stargaze on its sloping roof. They will get their designations tattooed on the inside of their spark chambers, so they're always within illumination distance of each others' sparks. Prowl falls asleep, head on its chest, imagining the pulse of life in there.

In his dreams, Prowl hears a whisper made of silver and fire. **Cleave Your Spark And Ignite Your Beloved.**

When Prowl wakes to the cold, glassy visor of his creation, he springs out of bed. He takes a laser scalpel and braces himself. He opens his chest, his spark chamber. He sets the edge of the laser scalpel against his spark. He grits his teeth. He tries- he shudders- he misses. He tries again. With a cry, a tiny, effervescent piece of himself comes free. He snatches it before it can dissipate and shoves it into his creation.

He expects its lines to flood with energon, its biolights to bloom, its visor to flash, and for it to jump up and embrace him.

But nothing happens.

Prowl lays his head on the thing's chest and weeps. “But I love you,” he says. “What more do you need?” He kisses it.

The lips are warm.

Prowl doesn't register it at first. Realization dawns like lightning. His venting stutters. He resets his optics. He presses his lips against its mouth again and _its lips yield._ The metal moves and softens at his touch. His creation takes a deep breath. Prowl falls to the floor in disbelief, limbs shaking. His creation – no, _the mech_ \- looks down at him, visor a brilliant blue, and smiles.

“Nothing more than that.” His voice- for it is a he- is upbeat and inviting. He pulls Prowl up from the floor and kisses his tears away. “I love you, too!”


End file.
